Tidal Wave
by anemotionallyconstipatedauthor
Summary: One-shots from before and throughout Driftwood. Different perspectives.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a little side piece to _Driftwood_. I thought it would be nice to see things differently, see what happened before Nora arrived in Forks and get a look from other people's perspectives. Hope you like it. Please review!**

* * *

 **Tidal Wave**

* * *

 **ALICE**

It was an ordinary day in an ordinary town in America. The cafeteria of the local high school was bustling, filled to the brim with teens of all ages. They chattered excitedly, ignoring the heavy spatter of rain against the window panes.

In one corner of the room, a beautiful, terrifying being swayed slightly, unfocused, before sitting ramrod straight, golden eyes filled with sympathy and sadness. Though her eyes bore into nothing in particular, they also, somehow, looked upon the image of a girl. She was sat, alone, in a _different_ cafeteria, somewhere bigger and more modern, reading a battered, yellowed copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

The other, equally beautiful and terrifying beings followed the female's lost gaze and saw nothing. They did not see the image. They did not see the other.

That is, except, for one. He saw, witnessing it in his mind just as his sister did in hers.

"Alice," he muttered, "who is that?"

Alice Cullen pursed her lips in a frown. "I don't know," she whispered, "but she's going to be devastated."

It was like a reflection. That's what it felt like, with her vision playing out before her, tucked inside her head. Like they were all puppets on string. People she'd never met – likely never would – and yet the feeling of sadness, hopelessness and guilt lay in her stomach like lead.

But, as her family reminded her daily, visions such as this were not her fault. She was merely the witness.

Across the world, in another room, the girl remained obliviously content with her book. She continued to read one sentence, and Alice, the witness, read too.

 _It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was -_

"Nora Brennan?"

It was a Welsh accent, soft and steadfast. Not American, not from Forks, so why was she envisioning it at all?

The girl looked up and Alice felt like everything and everyone hesitated, uncomfortably.

Time stopped, stretched endlessly between atoms; flecks of dusts froze, the chattering students paused, and Alice, as if she was the spectral witness, floated across the room and peered into the girl's face, carving its innocence, its happiness, its peace, and memorising it all before she crumbled.

She had a lovely face, Alice thought, which would be lovelier, somehow, in its misery. More poignant and raw. But perhaps that was just her; perhaps this girl was perfectly ordinary or plain and she was simply romanticising her in her torment. Her nose was small, with a slight upturning and a little bump on the bridge. She had lips made to smile, coloured a dull pink. She had an easily overlooked charm, Alice decided. Her eyes were slightly hooded, as if perpetually amused, and a shade of sea blue. She was incredibly pale, her blemishes and a spattering of endearing freckles on her nose stood out plainly, stark against her skin, and her face was framed with thick waves of orange coloured hair.

She was pretty in a way, and also not. It was as if she simply got up, washed her face and trotted off to school without a care. Her entire being, a little tall and slightly thin, was calm, content and very _human_ , sitting in a simple outfit of a _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt, jeans and sneakers.

But she wasn't from Forks.

It wasn't happening here, no, it was somewhere else – this girl, this anonymous girl, wasn't someone Alice had ever met before.

"Yes, Mr Davies?" She asked, her voice soft but firm. She was confident but not loud. Her voice was also different to the teacher's, lilting and eclectic. Not quite Welsh, something new.

It fit her perfectly, Alice thought. Something a little awkward and drifting in between.

The portly, red faced teacher awkwardly scratched the back of his thick neck. Both Alice and Nora observed this, but he remained unaware. "I'm afraid," he began, uncomfortably, "that you'll need to come with me to the principal's office. Your father, well, he's, um, if you could just– "

She cut him off with sudden sharp clarity. It was dawning in her eyes, but she remained hopeful.

Hopeless.

"Is he alright?" Alice watched her throat muscles clench as she swallowed, her entire frame tightening in anticipative dread, coiled and ready.

"Tell me," she demanded.

And –

The teacher's face crumpled slightly, his eyes shining with pity and guilt at having to tell her. It was the expression that answered her. While this man attempted to remain professional, she'd already been given the truth in the pity swirling in his brown eyes.

"Nora –"

"No," she mouthed, voice lost in disbelief, eyes wide, and the rest of the cafeteria was silent, deadly, and waiting for the outcome of this morbid play.

He sighed, almost silently, a human wouldn't have heard but Alice did, she _always_ heard, "I'm so sorry, my dear."

And her face crumpled, like it had been deflated. A choked, strangled sob stuck in her throat. She stood, sharply, her seat scraping and her book falling to the ground, limp, lifeless and forgotten. She seemed to lurch forward slightly, shaking, before freezing in position.

Her amused eyes were no more, replaced by these alien, frightened, pleading ones. And her lips smeared into a grimace, her eyebrows crumbling together, her entire expression begging for release.

Tears smelled strange to vampires. Salty, obviously, yet dulled, as if they were muted with sadness. Nora's tears, even in a vision, touched Alice's senses far before they fell. She was already stumbling to the door, ignoring the awkward half-shoulder-rub from Mr Davies as he walked with her, before they finally stained her face and the strangled sob became a hollow, mournful moan.

The doors shut, and chaos ensued. The room was alive with gossip, faux-sympathy, and the occasional wonder as to what had happened. No one really spoke to Nora Brennan – she had moved there not long ago and slipped quietly into the background of things, clearly enjoying her imposed solitude. She had few friends – the gay drug addict, Donald, the charming Josh Thomas, who hosted the end-of-year parties. But no more than a handful.

Now, it seemed like people regretted not offering her friendship. But these people were the type that craved the attention that this kind of grief and horror would bring.

No one noticed the satchel or fallen book and at the end of lunchtime, when the stampede herded out, Alice wished she could step out into this vision and walk across to get it, to re-read the sentence Nora had yet to finish, to do _something_.

The vision ended, a swirling, hazy mist descended and suddenly she was in Forks, in the cafeteria, saddened.

Alice had read the book herself enough times to know the end of Nora's unfinished sentence and somehow, it hit her harder than any other poor soul's loss had since she'd began seeing their grieving faces.

 _It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived._

* * *

 **NORA**

In a little beach cove, hidden away from prying eyes of the adjacent town's inhabitants, a small cottage sat quietly and undisturbed. Outside, on the shoreline, the view witnessed by a tired, young girl with a cup of tea in hand, was sublime. As day broke, the crescent sun peeked from the horizon of the grey sea; a firmament of bruised clouds swirled and imploded above, its peaceful majesty reflected in the morning's chilled waters, speckled with the sun's golden rays, and the faint dance of seagulls were barely smudges in the distance. The waves crashed gently, the ebb and flow of the current, intoxicating and hauntingly simple.

The girl absorbed the beauty, her feet buried in the sand, an occasional sip of her tepid tea interrupting the silence. There was an inherent, irrefutable stillness on the beach, as if time had paused in the dawn, the world unsure whether to wake or continue basking in dreams.

And the simple, raw beauty presented before her today caused the corners of her lips to faintly turn upwards for the first time in two weeks.

But as she turned her back on it, the cottage engulfed her. It stood, ominous and dark, willing her to indulge in her grief. The ghosts of her memories became tangible beings, wandering around too quickly for her to grab, laughing too highly for her to hear, their bodies too faint for her to see.

It made something deep inside of her ache.

But Jon had come home today. He'd come home, hugged her tightly, and promised that they could leave this place behind them soon. Apparently, there was another property awaiting them, in another little town, in an entirely different country.

It was in a place called Forks.


	2. Chapter 2

I decided that I would add little bits to this sporadically. _Tidal Wave_ is the behind the scenes, really, of _Driftwood_. You get other perspectives as well as being filled in on some of the moments mentioned or briefly skimmed over.

I'm sorry, to all my followers, for not updating sooner. I promise _Driftwood_ (and hopefully my other pieces) will be updated by this weekend. It's a backlash from mental exams, guys.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

 **JON**

His arm itched. He looked at it, at the reddened, burnt skin. He had been on holiday when he found out.

Now, in the cold empty cottage, he stared down at it, forcing himself to ignore the continued buzzing of his phone. It was filled with unanswered texts and purposely avoided calls.

His hands shook.

"Ready?" asked his sister, in her hoarse, hollow voice. She stood in the hall, waiting. She looked as sickly as he did. Both were rumpled and unprepared.

He knew, logically, as he always had, that this day had always been a likely moment in his life. It was improbable that his dad would outlive him. Not impossible, but improbable.

They were going to scatter his ashes today and, as he peered at Nora's gaunt features, he knew he would not be able to stop the trembling of his hands or the burning behind his eyes.

He remembered being young. He remembered being so very happy with his life – he remembered saying, "I love you, Dad." He remembered his dad's warm hugs and crinkly smile and the laughter lingering in the echoes of his voice.

When he was very young and very reckless, Jon had injured his back. He had been immobilised for a week, strapped to the hospital bed as a precaution, and he had been terrified, he remembered, of never moving again. It was before Nora had been born. He was only four years old and to be told, so young, that he could not move? It had been agony.

He had smelt the thick tang of bleach, tasted it on his tongue, bitter and sharp; he had stared listlessly at the dots of mould in the ceiling, counting and recounting, again and again; he had listened to the irritating monotonous _dripdripdrip_ of the person's IV two beds down, like a hammer to his skull.

Back then, when his mum was still alive – a warm, kind presence in his life, the joker with the sharp tongue who would swat his hands for reaching for an extra cookie – his dad had been so relaxed. Ever since, even in his happiest moments, there had been a shadow there, hanging over him.

But, not then. Then, he was content.

And so, while Jon's mum would visit him in the day, his dad – as only one could stay – would remain with him overnight. His dad would hold his hand until he fell asleep. His dad had held his glass as he drank from a straw when he woke up crying. His dad had sat beside him when he couldn't sleep and read, in the softest of voices, _The Railway Children_.

It was a dull book. He had hated reading as a child. And, even now, the plot of the book was lost to him.

But he remembered his dad's voice; calm and soft.

He needed that. He always needed it.

Oh God, he wasn't ready. He would never be, would he?

How did he do this? He, who was now the adult. The replacement parent.

He couldn't do it. Jon was not particularly clever or strong or charming. He was self-consciously aware of how gangly he was, he liked to cook in his free time but not as a necessity, and he had no money. And somehow, this would have to be enough.

How could it ever be enough?

He would find a job over there, in the new town, in the new country. They were leaving at the end of summer. Leaving his home. And his dad.

It would be Jon and Nora, alone. His sister and himself against the world. He loved Nora, truly, with his entire being. And she loved him just as much.

And as he stared over at her identical sea coloured eyes and bright orange hair, she was eclipsed by an image of his dad.

His throat clogged and the strain of his muscles, tightening with the will not to cry, ached.

"Yeah," he replied, a little too sharply. The sadness was always there. Could always be heard.

Jon was not ready.

He grasped his sister's hand regardless, and tightened his grip. She smiled, a small, forgotten emotion, but it was enough.

"Let's go," said Jon.

He was not, and would never be, ready. But he would pretend, for Nora.


	3. Chapter 3

**LOLA**

For the most part, she was allowed to do as she pleased. Her parents were indifferent to anything below the surface – as long as she maintained her usual preppy school girl image everything was left alone.

Unfortunately, that image didn't include smoking; if anything, it outright shunned it, so she was forced to smoke privately.

She smoked behind the school or on the way to work. She didn't even like it – sure, the itch to have another was there, but it was manageable for now. But she still smoked.

Because she wanted to be _that_ person. The one who smoked outside cafes, looking incredibly stylish and unbothered by the distasteful looks they may garner.

There was the truth of it. She started smoking because it looked cool and she wanted to pretend to be that unbothered person. The one who took those disdainful glares and just smirked back at them, not giving a flying fuck. It was a horrible thing to know about herself but in the murky swamps of her mind, she knew and would never forget it.

But at home, with her parents and their judging eyes and disappointed sighs, she smoked in secret. Out of her window, in short sharp inhales and exhales, she had fine-tuned this routine. She did it now – pausing for ominous floorboard creaks or a particularly loud mumble of her mother – each quick exhale sounding like the short, controlled breathing of a practised runner.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, she would smoke with all the sneaking guilt and paranoia of a thief.

Over and over again until she stubbed it out against the mildewed outer wall and tucked the butt neatly into the cigarette pack and that into the small zipped compartment of her bag.

Then came the rapid spraying of deodorant, followed by her perfume, followed by a trip to the bathroom in order to re-brush her teeth and wash the smell from her hands.

And, when she returned, she would inhale long and hard through her nose, sniffing out any lingering of it.

If it were there, it would be gone by morning. Though it froze her bones into frigid mannequin pieces, she would leave the window open. It would be gone by morning.

Nora always knew somehow despite seeing her the following day, post-shower. _You smoked again last night, Lola._ Never a question, but a blunt fact. It was one of the reasons she liked Nora; the girl disliked the smoking habit, but never looked disappointed in her. If anything, it seemed like Nora was just waiting for her to stop.

Lola wanted to stop (sometimes, but she'd never admit it). Ever since she'd realised so many… unfortunate things about herself, she'd been stressed. She'd been meticulous about her image.

And now, she wanted to do something uncaring.

It was something cool. It was cool to smoke. It was cool to threaten her lungs, to shorten her lifespan, to dizzy her thought process.

Even now, as she stood on her tiptoes, arms dangling out of the window, one holding the cigarette carefully, her head tilted sideways to try and fit through – don't let the smoke in, don't let the wind change direction – she was thinking about what other people would think of her. She wasn't an individual, not even in her own mind: she was an image. She was a stereotype. She thought of herself through a camera, through a television screen. She, as she rebelled in her little room, was being watched by millions who idolised her. People who nodded, gave sly smirks, all the while thinking, maybe I should start doing that too, or at least pretending I do. There would be knowing looks between girlfriends –a mutual acknowledgement to pretend that they, too, smoked in secret.

How vain she was. How vain and conceited. And yet, she thought it still. Perhaps this was the balcony scene from _Romeo and Juliet_ – a dreadful play, so horrible, so pointless in its death for the sake of lust – and here she was, as Juliet. This window seat is my balcony, she imagined, and the neighbour's cat, my serenading Romeo.

She sighed. She knew what she had to do.

She'd not seen Nora yet – the girl had, quite literally, become some sort of hero by tackling the new Swan sheep and was subsequently still off school.

She'd go and visit Nora tomorrow, Lola decided, stubbing the cigarette out. Before she began her post-smoking clean up, she smirked a little. She could find out whether Edward Cullen had made any secret visits, too.

She'd ask Nora tomorrow and try and weed out any romance details.

Oh, who was she kidding? Nora was denser than a brick.

But Lola could see it. It was blatantly obvious.

Cullen had it _bad_.


	4. Chapter 4

Whether Edward truly thinks this or not is up to you - some read _Driftwood_ completely differently, seeing it as more platonic at this stage. So yeah, this is sort of to appease the many (manymanymany) inboxes I got about seeing some proper romance and also hopefully satisfying those who wanted Edward POV.

Anyway, here's what he _could_ have been thinking... maybe.

* * *

 **EDWARD**

 _"_ _You're not a monster. Not to me."_

He had always been under the impression that love was intense. A burning, scorching flame of emotion that overwhelmed the senses and latched onto each thought, each opinion, each moment, until the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made sense, was the loved one. One person to orbit around, one person to exist for.

He knew differently now.

Love was not intense. Love did not burn.

For he loved Nora, and had for some time, with a steadiness that calmed him and seemed solid and immovable like the presence of a limb or the blue of the sky.

He was soothed by Nora Brennan. She was simply impossible to leave or forget. She was an effortless part of his existence. She was there, and that was right.

He used to think love meant beauty and passion but Nora was not particularly beautiful – not aesthetically or socially so. Her figure was tall and thin. It reminded him of a willow tree in its deceptive fragility. Nora was not fragile, she was too iron willed for that. Her skin was stark and openly flawed. Her nose slightly crooked, her lips chapped. She had witchy fingers and a small mouth. He had heard all of these deductions in the minds of students and he had questioned how they could see that? How could they not see her brightness? Her motivation to do the right thing? Her ridiculous, awful, brilliant humour?

But he thought her beauty incomparable. He thought these qualities shone like the sun and he could not look away. The quirk of her lips as she smiled at him and he could see their friendship in the ease with which she offered him happiness. The crease of her eyebrows as she gave him a silent look – a look of safety, of assurance and trust.

She challenged him and understood him and spoke to him with no qualms.

She was an incredibly flawed human being. An incredibly sad one too.

He loved her entirely. A soft, comfortable, easily fitting love that brushed over him gently. Because she was so flawed. Because of her witchy fingers and silent looks and frankness.

Nora was unapologetically herself. She strode through life with an ease only matched by her brother – that strange paradox of self-deprecating humour and complete confidence. She had opinions and didn't falter. She had flaws and accepted them. She grieved but knew she would one day be truly happy again.

Nora was good.

She had an open, honest soul.

And as he looked at her, as she told him he was not a monster, he realised something.

To be good in her eyes was enough. To not be a monster in the eyes of Nora Brennan gave Edward Cullen insurmountable peace.


End file.
